Angel
by chromeknickers
Summary: When your world has collapsed all around you, who would you turn to for solace? Could you find comfort in the arms of an enemy? Could you find your angel? Sadly, some things are never that simple. Warning: bitter-sweet with emphasis on the bitter.


_I disclaim_.

**A/N**: A bitter-sweet D/G fic written for **MidnightXRed**'**s** birthday. Happy birthday, cutie!

I suggest listening to the song _Angel _by Sarah McLaughlan, which inspired the emotion and theme behind this drabble. The lyrics, in italics, that close this story are from _Angel_.

**Angel**

The rain battered the rusted tin roof as violent winds shook the tiny shack, threatening to lift it from its feeble foundations. These were not comforting or soothing sounds, like the pitter-patter of rain against a bay window or the soft whistle of air rushing through a screen door, putting you to sleep with their natural melodies. These noises were jagged and harsh, like the pelting of ice onto concrete or the terrifying cry of some unknown beast piercing the night sky or the sickening grunt and tear of a solid oak tree being torn out by its roots. You see, these sounds portended danger.

The wind howled and shrieked, assailing the rotted wood with its bitter force, offering no respite to the shivering girl who lay atop a dusty, mildew-covered bed with threadbare sheets tangled about her feet. She drew the tattered, damp remnants of her robes closer about her chest and arms, staring up at the dirty, cobwebbed ceiling that threatened to collapse on her head at any moment.

She tried to think back to how she had arrived here at this humble refuge, but all she could recall was a blinding light and being knocked to the ground. The images in her head were as hazy as the fog that drifted in through the cracks underneath the door. She remembered lying face down in the mud, content to let herself choke and drown, when she felt strong arms encircle her waist and lift her upwards, allowing to her to take in air once more—air clogged with clay and granulated dirt.

The rain began to pour down harder now, merciless and unforgiving, as thunder rumbled loudly in a not-so-far-off distance. It was the sound of hunger gurgling in a giant's gut. It was the echo of her heartbeat, drumming in her ears and chest, sounding like a reckoning.

A great flash of lightening filled the room, and a crash followed shortly thereafter. She could hear the crack and sizzle of the electricity, the only heat emanating from the drenched moors. She noted that the inside of the cabin hadn't weathered much better: the floors were damp and flooded. Fortunately, for her, the bed was saved most of the damage, situated directly under the one small portion of the roof that was not yet riddled with holes or caved in.

A single drop of water hung precariously from the rafters above and then noiselessly fell, splashing down on her face. She made no attempt to wipe it away as a second and third drop fell in succession, dripping down her cheeks to mix with dried tears.

Was anyone else alive?

She had seen Fred and George fall, side-by-side, futilely attempting to shield one another from the inevitable. Percy followed next, rushing at the murderous bastards. Wand poised, and with a heart-wrenching cry, he blasted at them with his sorrow, aiming to avenge their deaths. He was hit with so many spells that she couldn't tell where or whom they came from.

She knew which one was aimed at her mother. Both she and Bellatrix Lestrange lay sprawled out on the softened ground, eyes open, lidless and lifeless. That was the moment when she went numb, when the world, as she knew it, had fragmented into a million black shards of nothingness. It was then that she was hit with the blinding white light.

When she woke, memories of her family came rushing back to her, pumping soundlessly in her veins. She had tried, to no avail, to blink back the tears that came so freely, spilling unabashedly down her cheeks. She had lost half her family in the blink of an eye. It had all seemed so surreal.

Charlie was the only one that she was sure was still alive, but then the battle was bound to spread to other parts of the world, and it was only a matter of time before he, too, would be forced to fight. Bill, Ron, and her father…she had no idea where they were or if they had survived.

She choked back a muffled sob and bit down on her lip. She had been crying silently for hours, unable to halt the ebb and flow of her emotions. The tears came, dried up, and then came again, but she refused to cry out and wail uncontrollably. To do that was to admit reality: everyone she had ever loved was either dead or missing, and she was alone.

It was then that she was seized with irrevocable guilt. If only she was stronger, more powerful, a person capable of performing great deeds. But she wasn't. She was just a girl—one of average skill and average intelligence. In the end, she was useless, not good enough, unable to help those around her. She was forced to fight a losing battle, to watch those around her die.

So much senseless violence. So much death. So much sacrifice. And in the end—in _this_ end—was it worth it? Had they won, or had they lost their chance?

A creaking noise sounded on the floorboards, and she weakly turned over on her side. How could she come back from such sorrow and loss? How could she survive this alone? What did she have to hold on to?

She curled up into a ball and whimpered quietly. Her mighty walls had finally begun to crumble around her, and the floodgate of her emotions lifted. All she wanted was to forget, to numb the pain she felt inside. What she needed was a distraction, a release from all her heartache and sorrow. So she closed her eyes and imagined the bed dipping downward with those familiar, strong arms enclosing around her waist once more, this time pulling her tightly against him. Tonight, she would dream of her angel, flying her away from all this endless fear and death. Tonight, she would find some kind of peace.

**X**

He peered out the window, letting his vision roam over and focus on the desolate wasteland. His concentration briefly waned, and the images began to darken and blur. It was as though he was staring into the abyss itself. He quickly shut his eyes as if in prayer and opened them, looking out onto the heath to observe the storm that threatened to twist and build like the lies that made up his life.

He wasn't ordinarily a brooding man. Over the years, he had become somewhat of a loner and had suspected that it was his withdrawal from society that had made him so melancholic and unpredictable, like the tempest itself. He never cared to give over to raw emotion. It served no purpose. Even as he stood in the dim light of the dingy old cabin, his body bloodied and broken, he felt no desire to cry out in pain. He had simply gone numb. When he had first begun to lose all feeling was hard to say. Physically, it was maybe an hour ago. Emotionally, it was much less recent.

A noise sounded outside, and he grabbed his wand with a grimace and a hiss of pain escaped his lips. He had forgot that he had broken his middle two fingers on his right hand. He would have to use his left now. It wasn't his wand hand, but he would manage. No one could ever make claim that he wasn't adaptable or versatile. He was a being of function.

He took another furtive glance out the window and, predictably, saw nothing. He assumed that he had heard something that wasn't there. The storm, unceasing in its rage, was too loud to allow any other noise to take precedence. Any mischief or danger lurking nearby would have been masked by the howl of the wind, the hiss of the rain, and the black shroud of night.

It was unlikely that anyone had survived, and if they had, they would have never found this place in the eye of the storm. However, it didn't matter what the logical half of his brain had deduced: he would always be looking over his shoulder for the vultures and thieves who pursued him. To call this paranoia was an understatement. This attitude, however, had served him well in the past. It had enabled him to survive.

So what was looming behind his back now? He could find no answer to his question, and this, somehow, became a comforting thought. It was the simplicity of not knowing, which led to casual indifference. Ignorance truly was bliss. However, he could never afford such a luxury. He simply couldn't relax. He had to inspect, to make sure. Natural instinct and the general proclivity towards self-preservation made him cautious. So he slowly went over to the door, which did not completely shut, and peered out through its opening. He turned his head and listened.

Crash.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand, five one-thousand.

Crash.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand.

Crash.

Getting closer.

It was the rumble of thunder and the crack of lightening. The baleful storm seemed intent on continuing a battle that had long ended, hurling its bolts closer and closer to the humble, worn down shack he inhabited. It was as relentless as it was unforgiving. Its only purpose: a selfish release, which, inevitably, led to the destruction of whatever stood in its path.

He had to lower his wand and laugh at the thought of the elements being narcissistic. Was it foolish for him to compare his life to the onslaught of a storm? No. Wherever he went, death followed. He knew that there was nothing out there for him. So, why had he entered this place? Did he have some absurd notion that he could run away and hide? It didn't make a difference if he escaped this one last time. If they found him, they found him. He was sick of running, sick of hiding, sick of living the double life.

He turned from the door and slowly made his way towards the bed. He was just so damn tired, physically and mentally. He hoped that if he could find sleep then maybe he'd wake up to discover that these last three years of his life had all been a dream. A nightmare.

He placed his wand in his pocket and lowered himself onto the worn mattress, feeling it sink down towards the floor. He tried to convince himself that it was better this way, to live the lie. How much easier it would be to feel nothing and _be_ nothing. But in order to live this way, he would have to be certain that there was no one else left. He was no optimist though. He knew that others had survived, like cockroaches, and they would eventually crawl out from beneath the woodpile to come look for him. There was no point in trying to escape his fate.

A whimper sounded next to his ear, and he carefully turned over on his side, folding the small redhead into his arms. Her pitiful moans turned into a sob, but she did not flinch at his touch. Instead, she melted into his embrace, letting her wet tears trickle down onto his arm.

He let out a soft sigh, and his feathered blond hair fell in front his dark grey eyes that began to grow heavy with sleep. His eyelids finally relented and languidly began to close as he drew her in closer. Once again, she did not resist, and her crying finally subsided. She murmured something incoherent and let out a tired sigh of her own.

He drew his knees up and felt her settle back more naturally into his body. He listened to the rhythmic sound of her breathing, which, at long last, had become relaxed and steady. He carelessly nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck and took in a deep breath, releasing one last sigh before he drifted off to sleep, flying away from all the sorrow and pain with an angel lying peacefully in his arms.

**X**

_In the arms of the angel  
Fly away from here  
From this dark cold hotel room  
And the endlessness that you fear  
You are pulled from the wreckage  
Of your silent reverie  
You're in the arms of the angel  
May you find some comfort here_

**X**

**FIN**

**Author notes**: I'd like to thank **Kim **(Boogum) for her invaluable beta-ing services. As always, she does a wonderful job pointing me in the right direction.


End file.
